


The Apartment

by Dormammu12



Category: Original Work
Genre: Belly Kink, Crimes & Criminals, Extramarital Affairs, F/M, Genderbending, Genderfuck, Genderplay, Organized Crime, Seduction, Shapeshifting, Transformation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:53:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26012929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dormammu12/pseuds/Dormammu12
Summary: Lawrence and Samantha share an apartment... and a body.
Relationships: Samantha Bolingbroke/Simon Banks, Samantha Bolingbroke/Steven
Kudos: 4





	1. The Present, I

**Author's Note:**

> I am Dormammu12 on DeviantArt. My online presence may be viewed in its totality here: linktr . ee / dormammu12
> 
> I also take commissions. Contact me on dA for more.

Lawrence’s penthouse occupied almost half of the top floor of the building. Given that each floor of the condominium was intended to accommodate four units per floor, this meant that Lawrence’s penthouse was very large indeed.

His penthouse was lined with glass, all the better to allow him to look out over the city; in one corner, he had placed a sprawling bathroom. In the corner of _that_ bathroom, there was a shower cubicle, large enough for him to stretch both arms out and still fail to touch the corners. The sink had been raised, and the mirror was not connected to the wall. By peeking between the slats, he could see the skyscrapers of the CBD, if he squinted. The bathroom had two doors: one leading to his study, the other leading into his walk-in closet.

His walk-in closet consisted of a window of sheer glass from about his waist-height; if he stood with his back to the window, he could see the entirety of his wardrobe laid out for him. Any curious eyes would only see his upper torso, thereby preventing any outrage of modesty. The walk-in closet was fairly large, being divided into two main corridors separated by an island of ties, socks and whatnot in the centre, plus a pair of unobtrusive doors which could cover up the inner corridor at the push of a button. Moving on…

Lawrence’s bedroom was around twice the size of the bathroom. His bed faced the CBD, though the view was ruined somewhat by the presence of a widescreen TV. There were two chairs and a small table; apart from that, nothing more. From there, it was a few steps into the living room.

The living room, again, faced the skyline. There was another TV and a number of paintings on the walls. There were two coffee tables, and a monstrous sofa which doubled up as an extra bed on the days that Lawrence didn’t feel like sleeping in his bedroom. There were no walls between the living room and the kitchen, which contained a few efficient little appliances and a rectangular table which could seat six. A portion of the kitchen was dedicated to laundry, and a portion of the floor was exposed to the elements, with a pair of chairs and a table fenced off from the drop by a set of iron banisters. There was a treadmill, a rack of dumbbells, and one or two machines. Past that, it had started to feel a bit cramped.

The entrance hall mostly contained footwear and a few other pieces of artwork. From there, Lawrence could go into the study, which connected into the bedroom. So, the penthouse had a roughly circular layout. His study was around the size of the bedroom, though the living room was the largest space in the apartment. It contained all his books, a long desk along the wall which overlooked the city, as well as a printer and a vast computing set-up lavishly equipped with no less than three separate screens.

The windows in the bathroom, the bedroom, the study and the living room could all be opened. In the living room, near the centre of the apartment - which was along the back of the living room - there was a circular alcove which led to the rooftop. The rooftop could be accessed by the lift, and maintenance did access it often enough. This meant that Lawrence kept his portal to the roof shut at all times. He wasn’t exactly certain, but it was likely that his neighbours kept it shut as well.

Of course, Lawrence wasn’t in at the moment.

\-----

“What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?”

Samantha looked up. She was a small girl, a little below average height, and had been watching the dance floor for the better part of an hour, gazing out over the bodies writhing beneath the strobe-lights. “Bored.” She examined her manicured fingernails and peered through her eyelashes at the taller man looming over her. “You?”

“Just… out.” He waggled his hand and tried to look disinterested, but Samantha could recognize the look in his eyes. She’d attracted the eyes of a gratifyingly decent number of men as she _click_ ed in through the door, belly leading the way.Samantha was fat, that much was obvious. But it was a detail which one noticed in passing, without any judgement, and, besides, you couldn’t really tell.

“Good to know.” She nodded at the people on the dance floor, the throbbing music, the crystal glasses lined up behind the bar. “Does this… interest you?” She shifted on her seat, which groaned softly - just loud enough for her own ears. “All this. Nice guy like you, I’m sure you’ve got a lot of friends.” She tucked her hair behind her ear and folded her arms over the swell of her abdomen. “More than enough friends than to be spending time with a girl like me.”

“Now,” the man said, shifting his stance such that he loomed over here, “don’t you say that about yourself. You’re beautiful… and I could say the same for you. Surely you have plenty of friends as well! Where are they?”

“Oh,” Samantha shrugged. “They left.” She popped her compact open and gave her face a cursory once-over, even though it wasn’t necessary. “Er. I’m the loner in my circle, actually.”

“What a coincidence! So am I.” He stuck his hand out. Samantha took it and looked at him, really _looked_ at him, absorbing his swarthy features, the way his front teeth protruded slightly, the air of general physical health and, over that, the impression that he thought very highly of himself. “Steven.”

“Samantha.”

The two of them leaned against the bar and watched the time tick away. It was half an hour to midnight when Samantha struck up conversation with him again. Steven was slightly more inebriated, but no less averse to her insinuations. He was making quite a few of said insinuations himself, as a matter of fact.

“Well,” Samantha continued, leaning closer to him and bending down such that her belly grazed the fabric of his pants and her cleavage dipped closer, “I think you’re here for just about the same reason as me… sex.”

Although Samantha was, technically, overweight (for her height, at least), it did not mean that she was unattractive. In fact, her fat had been distributed over her body in a manner immensely flattering to her. Her face wasn’t plump - on the contrary, it was V-shaped, and entirely bereft of any extra pouches of flesh under her chin. The makeup helped, though it certainly wasn’t the main contributing factor - many of her one-night-stands had moaned, in the midst of necking her, grinding into her ass, that she had the face of an angel. (Samantha still hadn’t decided whether that was a good thing or a bad thing.) Apart from Samantha’s face, her fat settled - vaguely - over her arms and her thighs. A larger proportion of it was concentrated in her hips, on her breasts, but the vast majority of it was concentrated in her belly.

Steven looked faintly excited. “Do you…” He caught his breath, cleared his throat. The strobe lights flickered over his face. “Do you wanna get out of here? I’ll get a taxi -”

“There’s no need,” Samantha interrupted, pressing her fleshy middle against his crotch as she rose to her feet, “I have a car.”

The two of them made their way out of the bar, out into the balmy night. Samantha led him by the hand to the car-park; she moved quickly, for such an overweight girl. Her creamy shoulders were exposed to the breeze; with a hint of the hypnotic, her belly swayed back and forth, back and forth, tight and pert like her bottom, the line of her panties visible through the fabric. She thumbed the buttons of the lift and waited, shooting Steven a furtive smile, hefting her clutch in her hand. She really was very short… but so very _willing_. Steven felt very lucky.

“Wow,” he breathed, as he beheld her car. It was a splendid model, to be sure - a sleek Continental brand, silver in colour, its lights flashing as Samantha reached into her handbag and fingered her key fob. He shot her a look. “Are you sure you’re sober enough to drive?”

Samantha gave him an unimpressed stare. “I could say the same for you.”

As Steven swung into the car, the fog had already begun fading from Samantha's eyes as she ran her hands lovingly over the leather coverings of the steering wheel. The vehicle hummed into life; it was obviously very well-maintained. Steven watched as Samantha stretched out her legs to reach the pedals - as though she’d been doing it all her life - and rolled her shoulders back. Slowly, the car slid out of its lot and made its gentle way down to the exit. Her seatbelt ran down from the seat behind; it had been tucked, very carefully, underneath her belly.

“This,” Steven observed, “is a very nice car.” He cleared his throat and fiddled with his pants. “Must’ve cost a lot.”

“Yep,” Samantha replied, airily. “It’s mine. I’m rich.” She pulled the gearshift and tapped her fingers against its shaft as it slid smoothly into position. The streetlights passed by, faster and faster, as they turned onto the highway; the skyscrapers of the city rose above them, half-blotted out by the trees and the shrubbery and the honking of a thousand other cars on the road. “Don’t try and kiss me, now,” she warned. “That’ll get both of us in trouble.”

Steven was mildly offended. He wasn’t _that_ out-of-control.

Samantha’s skin was, unsurprisingly, quite above average. It was pale, clear, and lacked blotches or stretch marks. She did use oil on her midsection, but more for her own enjoyment than for anything else. Her section of the bathroom storage space was stuffed with lip gloss, with nail polish, with every variety of beauty products - in comparison, her roommate (in a manner of speaking) kept things very spartan.

It took less time than expected to swerve into a glitzy, elegant property - a high-rise gated complex, with the scenery of the CBD within view. The carpark wasn’t particularly well-designed, but it fulfilled its purpose. As Samantha weaved deftly into her lot, checking the camera feed on the dashboard, her stomach gurgled slightly. She glanced at Steven to catch him gazing at her, a bit of that fog still lingering in his eyes. She now realized that she was less drunk than Steven had thought, and Steven was less drunk than she had thought.

“What?”

“You drive… really well.”

“That’s just the car.”

The doors swung outwards; Samantha leaned on Steven’s arm and guided him towards the lobby. The elevator music started once they were in the lobby; it was well-lit, to be sure, and very sophisticated, very civilized. Steven watched Samantha as she tapped her card on the panel; her nails were painted pink.

“I live on the top floor.” The interior of the lift was paved in black and gold; there was a mirror mounted on the back. There was the faintest smell of jasmine.

“So, the penthouse?”

“Yep.”

“C’mon, you can’t expect me to not be curious.” Steven smiled winningly; Samantha ducked her head in a way which she hoped was coquettish and rolled her eyes. She was starting to get tired of this. “Well, who’s your dad? Near East? Niptech? Heron Group?”

“I resent that you think I can’t have made all this money on my own.”

Steven wasn’t offended. “You did say you were rich.”

“Oh my god,” Samantha muttered. Then, louder, “Yeah, I guess. Um, I work as an accountant. You… probably don’t know my parents.”

“But they’re still rich, yeah?”

“Yes, I suppose.” Samantha gritted her teeth. “Look, didn’t I bring you to my house to fuck?”

Steven’s face shuttered. “Well, maybe I don’t want to fuck anymore.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

They emerged out into the lobby on the twentieth floor; Samantha keyed in her passcode and inserted her keys. She bent down, ankles and back screaming, and pressed her thumb into the scanner. The door swung open; Samantha kicked off her heels and turned right into the kitchen. Steven headed for the couch as the lights clicked on. From where he was standing, he could almost see the whole city from here. There was even a small balcony, jutting out beside the television.

It _was_ a nice apartment.

“Ice cream?”

Steven shook his head and fiddled with the remote control, turning it over in his hands. The couch shifted as she plopped down beside him, a tub of ice cream cradled in her small hands. He noticed, now, that her hand bore a small silver watch, and a few rings, here and there. She wore no earrings. Samantha took the remote control from him, switched to a quiet movie, and dimmed the lights. She made no effort to slide closer.

Steven sat there, mildly confused. He knew that it was almost midnight, and that he could return to his own, relatively shabbier apartment whenever he wished. But… he closed his eyes. Girls, seriously.

The windows had been closed. For a while, there was nothing but the soft drone of the television and a rhythmic, monotonous droning sound. Steven sat there, his head drooping to his chest, content to suffer the silent treatment. His head fell; a thin strand of saliva had begun to peek out of the corner of his mouth. His shoulders fell, then slumped sideways. This was when he woke up.

“Jesus!” he yelped. Samantha looked at him, placidly, and raised a delicate eyebrow. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“What does it look like? I’m eating.”

She was indeed eating. Two tubs of ice cream sat on the coffee table, stacked on top of one another such that they occupied as little space as possible. On her other side, three more tubs sat; the third one was half empty. Samantha dug into the tub with a silver cup-like spoon, lifting the cold cream out. She regarded it, mildly, and then her black eyes flicked back up to regard the television. The spoon disappeared into her mouth.

“Don’t you get brain-freeze?” Steven managed.

Samantha shrugged. Her dress was a cute little black number which ended mid-thigh; it had been, unbeknownst to Steven, a two-piece. Or perhaps it had _become_ a two-piece, for the piece of soft fabric had parted, and Samantha’s belly now peeked out from between the two halves, a crescent of pale, perfect flesh.

“Hey, my eyes are up here.”

Steven’s eyes flicked up. Samantha posed, the spoon tapping on her full, crimson lips. Her tongue traced the curve of her mouth in one luxurious swipe; “Mmm,” she murmured, almost to herself. “Strawberry.”

“Strawberry?” Steven wasn’t sure why he was aroused - he should have been repulsed - but he was faintly aroused. She was obviously enjoying herself.

“Yeah. My lip gloss. This ice cream is vanilla, y’know.” She set the tub down to her right and reached around, arms bouncing imperceptibly. It was the tightness of her sleeves (which came down to her elbow) that accentuated the thin layer of fat over her arms. There was a rubber band in those deft, slightly sugar-stained hands, and her messy curls were quickly wrestled into a ponytail.

Now Steven was definitely aroused. Girls with ponytails were His Thing.

“You know,” he croaked, for the sake of his own dignity, “ice cream is not good to overindulge in.”

Samantha shrugged indifferently and polished off another spoonful of ice cream. Her stomach gurgled; she took one deep breath, and the two segments of her dress finally separated. Her top rode all the way up, until it was a few inches from her breasts, and she arched her back, the aching fullness of her abdomen clear and present. Steven glanced at her belly, and then her neck, the pop of her spine as she stretched luxuriously. When she opened her eyes and looked at him, eyes dark with want, he did not stop to wonder if she was aroused by the eating or by him.

“You said you wanted to fuck,” she murmured, throatily.

“Yeah.”

“Well?” She shifted in her seat with a wince and reached into the depths of her skirt. A few tugs, and a scrap of cloth came free. Steven was removing his belt and discarding it on the floor, shifting on the couch until he was kneeling on the soft fabric. His pants pooled around his waist, and he had withdrawn his trusty pack of condoms. There was a soft thump as the ice cream tubs fell to the carpet, securely fastened. “C’mon, Stevie. Claim your prize.”

\-----

Steven - that wasn’t his real name, by the way - woke up, tangled in the sheets. He felt the gentle kiss of the air-conditioning on his skin, and smelled a faint hint of perfume. Or was it cologne? Perhaps it was his. He raised his thick arm and took a short breath - no. He’d sweated his cologne away last night. And what a night it had been!

“Off you go,” Samantha said. He looked up; saw her, framed in the light from the doorway. The curtains of her massive bedroom had been drawn, and the dawn flickered in through the gauzy fabric. “Chop-chop, come on.” An almost perfectly round pale white sphere pushed against her dressing gown; he could see it through the cloth.

“Is that silk?”

“Never you mind.”

Steven wanted to get to know her better. His intentions weren’t entirely pure - how pure could they be, when he’d just had a night of mind-blowing sex with the vision before him? - but, entirely apart from that, he was genuinely curious as to how she'd been able to afford all this. She could be a very useful friend.  
  
Unfortunately, she was giving off a very strong “ _fuck off_ ” vibe. In the cold light of day, it was quickly becoming apparent that her skin was not nearly as flawless as it had seemed to be last night; there was the hint of puffiness around her eyes, and her flowing locks were gnarled and tangled. As for wrinkles… there were none. Small comfort.

“Fine,” he muttered. “I’ll… call an Uber.”

“Done.” Samantha stood aside, a steaming cup of coffee in her hands. Her hair swept across her cheekbones such that, for a moment, the only part of her face that Steven could see was her eyes, which were black - dark, black, all-encompassing. “C’mon.”

Steven grabbed his belongings. He wanted to hang around - he’d only seen half of her apartment, and was wondering where that wooden door in her bedroom led to - but Samantha was following him around, her gown trailing over the floor, the fine bones of her neck rising and receding as she took deep breaths, as though on the verge of screaming at him to get out. He took his wallet, his belt, his phone; patted his pockets, did up his buttons. There was a pleasant chime; Samantha grabbed the house phone, thumbed a button and nodded, once.

“Down you go.”

She brought him to the door, opened it, and stabbed at the lift irritably. Steven watched. He felt a vague sense of bemusement. “Last night -” he began.

Samantha pushed him into the elevator and pivoted on her swollen ankle. Her gown was made of a soft satin, perhaps silk; Steven fingered the hem of it in his mind as the lift doors closed and he could see nothing but his reflection. He emerged into the morning; the Uber was waiting. Steven slid in, muttered his address, and craned his neck for the name of the apartment building.

\-----

Samantha slid the door shut and leaned against it, panting.

Her stomach had begun to deflate. She kicked off her slippers and wiggled her toes into the soft carpet as her black hair began to tame itself. Slipping one shaking hand into her waistband, she pulled out the small plastic container and pressed her fingers together as her nail polish sloughed off into the cup. The process was repeated with her other hand.

The bones in her body were creaking as they rearranged themselves, stretched, realigned. Although the ice cream from the previous night had been a spot of personal pleasure, that was not to say that it did not serve a specific purpose.

In chemistry, it is known that for any reaction - any reaction at all - energy is involved. Energy is required to break intramolecular and intermolecular bonds; energy is absorbed when aforementioned bonds are formed.

Samantha hissed as the blubbery mass on her front - a combination of soft, supple fat and the half-digested remnants of last night’s large lunch and equally large supper - vibrated and split. Stripped down to their barest organic components, they set off in multiple directions, shunted towards her brain, her fingers, her knees, her groin, reforming into cells, tissue, organs. The sensation was neither pleasurable nor painful. It just… was. They could not imagine a time without it.

She had made it into her living room. With every step, her spine shifted and creaked, and their spine shifted accordingly. Slim fingers thickened, the heavy breasts sinking into vaguely defined pectorals. Lawrence had made it a point to keep in shape, but not in too good a shape. Aesthetically, he appreciated being strict, disciplined, slim, perfectly, sublimely optimized. It was his duty to take care of the accounts, to get things done. It was his name on the credit cards, on the title deeds, on the bank accounts, on the driving license.

Samantha’s stomach had gone completely; no one would mistake them for having anything other than a flat, slightly concave abdomen - barely a belly worth of the name. It was important to Lawrence that he not be too physically imposing. Eyelashes shrunk; Samantha’s mane of hair shortened to a simple cut.

Throughout this, they did not speak.

The dressing gown was discarded with a grunt of disgust; its hem no longer trailed over the floor. With rising, irrational anger, the panties were discarded, as was the bra. Samantha’s jaw had shortened, become squarish; her teeth had become yellowed, and slightly crooked. They limped over to the bedroom, back hunched, and pulled open one of the drawers. There was a small capsule of saline solution; Lawrence’s dentures went in. He wasn’t an old man, not by any means, but it was a medical condition. Two of his adult teeth had never grown in.

Muscle fibres finished their final round of thickening; Samantha’s frame had risen by twenty centimetres, lost their soft padding, grown tall and severe. Their eyes were still black, but they had changed. Something had gone from those black eyes, and something else had entered. Large, squarish feet slid over the floorboards and threw open the door to the walk-in wardrobe. A pair of cotton briefs was thrown on.

The last few droplets of organic matter finally reached their destination.

“Testing, testing, one, two, three,” they muttered. Samantha’s whisper deepened, thickened, became hoarser. Yellowed teeth snapped together as the cotton briefs swelled to accommodate something that should have been there all along.

Lawrence stretched. The warm light of day stretched over his bare torso, slipping into the jagged crevices of his back. He threw on a ragged Batman T-shirt, slid on his spectacles and wriggled into a pair of three-quarter pants. Then he went to splash water over his face; brush his teeth; wash his face.

Today, he intended to get some work done.


	2. The Past, I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am Dormammu12 on DeviantArt. My online presence may be viewed in its totality here: linktr . ee / dormammu12
> 
> I also take commissions. Contact me on dA for more.

"...the next thing in overcoming dysmorphia," Uncle Clarence boomed, looping one thick arm around his shoulders, and Lawrence stiffened as vaguely mocking giggles spread through the crowd of students behind him. _Ignore them_ , he thought to himself, the familiar low throb of fury percolating through his skull, as his uncle released his shoulders and stumped to the front of the group, leaving him to be subsumed by the crowd of students.  
  
"Must be nice to be related to a tranny-lover," Bill Hicks spat, shoving past him as his array of spit-shined, softball freaks swept after him, all ropy muscle and sneers, and Lawrence allowed himself to be shoved out of the way, jaw tensed, bumping against the railings. Experience told him that resistance would just peg him as a troublemaker, a nerd, acting out for no good reason whatsoever. Bill might not have been as wealthy as Lawrence's family, but his father had a lock on the school administration, and that - at this point in time, at least - was all that mattered.  
  
Clear tubes of steaming, cloudy fluid slurped out from underneath them, conveyed inexorably forwards at a startling pace. The tubes fed into vats, of which there were more than a few, and on this day - which was, after all, a special day - one of said vats had been opened. Vents had been installed to filter off any toxic fumes from the fluids being mixed around inside, and an array of related precautions had been taken to ensure the absolute safety of all parties concerned. The metal grilles of the catwalk clanged with their footsteps as the crowd shuffled along; Lawrence hung back, glancing at the spigots mounted from the ceiling, and fell into step with Simon.  
  
"Fuck Bill," Simon muttered.  
  
"Fuck Bill," Lawrence agreed. It wasn't really bullying, not really - just generalized expressions of contempt. It wasn't like they were giving him wedgies or extorting lunch money. It didn’t really put him in any particular distress, and it wasn’t like he could do much about it. "You going for the faculty outing?"  
  
A scoff. "No. No one wants us there." A beat. "Jam session and video games? My house?"  
  
"Fuck yeah." Lawrence didn't notice the rivet sticking out of the floor; he tripped, went flying. Bill Hicks laughed, loudly and boisterously, like the generally well-liked fellow he was, and a number of his classmates laughed with him. Bill was nice to everyone, after all, and those whom he wasn't nice to... no one really cared about them. Besides, Lawrence falling over… that was funny. Real slapstick. If Bill had fallen over, people would’ve laughed as well, of course. _Obviously._  
  
"I think Ken and Jim are coming too."  
  
"Yeah?" Lawrence muttered, his hand rubbing his throbbing cheekbone. "Good. Just the four of us, or are we going to troll other servers?"  
  
"Dunno. We'll see."  
  
Mr Lee whistled loudly. "No talking!”  
  
Uncle Clarence had come to a stop. A thick metal pipe loomed before him, into which a hatch had been set. He opened the hatch with a flourish, producing a flask out of nowhere, and carefully collected a thin stream of fluid within its confines before holding it up to his face. "Does anyone wish to view the mixture up close?"  
  
No hands went up.  
  
“No one? Looks like I’m going to have to choose…”  
  
Uncle Clarence borrowed Mr Lee’s clipboard and rattled off a few names. Given his familiarity with Lawrence, it was only a matter of time before his own name was called, and - as expected - he was the fifth "volunteer" to be anointed.  
  
Uncle Clarence began a short presentation with the help of a massive projector which projected onto the plain grey walls of the facility. He waved his laser pointer about with infectious enthusiasm, though, to be fair, HRT wasn’t exactly the most scintillating topic ever. A few people were impressed by the projection, though, and Lawrence, of course, was obliged to pay attention. If Uncle Clarence complained to his parents, he’d never hear the end of it.  
  
Somewhere behind, unbeknownst to Lawrence, Greg opened a bottle of mineral water and chugged it. A few stray droplets listed onto his hand, and then onto the plastic, which became slippery. The bottle fell from his hand, spilling out its cool, fresh bounty over the metal grilles of the catwalk. Mr Lee leaned forward, mouth open in a hiss of reproach. Another glob of water landed on Emily’s calf, making her squeal; and another landed on the hem of Lawrence’s pants.  
  
Lawrence flinched. The water spread along the grilles, as was its wont. Bernard - one of Bill’s henchmen - guffawed softly and thumped him on the back. “Scared?”  
  
The thump made Lawrence list forward. He took a few steps backward, to stay on the catwalk. His shoes hit the wet grilles, and lost purchase; Bernard stepped smartly back as Lawrence flapped his arms madly, struggling to stay upright. He failed. Forward he tilted again - too far forward. His armpits caught on the railings; his shoes tried, again, and failed to catch on the grilles. Down he went.  
  
\-----  
  
The room wasn’t brightly lit, but it wasn’t a dank, sweat-stinking cave, either. A simple table sat in the middle of the room; four desktops had been mounted around it, with wires feeding into four separate holes in the centre of the table. No one really slept in this room, or lived here; the table was pretty much the sole piece of furniture in the room, plus a small sofa with a bunch of modems and whatnot mounted right beside it.  
  
“On your left.”  
  
“Not yet… not yet… now.”  
  
“Hang on, uh, Lawrence just sent me a message. Check the chat.”  
  
A few beats of silence, followed by a few quick typing noises.  
  
\-----  
  
**LR:** hey my cousin just moved in and she wants to come game w/ yall  
  
**Ken:** name?  
  
**Jim:** wot  
  
**LR:** samantha  
  
**LR:** still shut up at home, fkin hate this shit  
  
**LR:** keep me updated on the raids and shit  
  
**Simon:** does ur cousin know how to play  
  
**LR:** ye  
  
**LR:** she’ll keep me updated too  
  
**Jim:** hv u been gaming with a GIRL?? without us??  
  
**LR:** lul maybe  
  
**Simon:** ya sure she can come over i’ll tell the security guard to let her in  
  
**LR:** cool thanks  
  
**LR:** prolly see u in sch in 2 weeks i guess  
  
**Ken:** rest up  
  
\-----  
  
“Why did you say yes?”  
  
“Hey, if she’s got Lawrence’s stamp of approval, I figure it’s okay, right? Besides… she’s a girl.”  
  
“She doesn’t even go to our school. What if she’s, like, some four-hundred-pound landwhale?”  
  
“Right.” Simon inhaled through his nose. “Well, we could always just not invite her next time.” There was a little icon on his desktop; he clicked it, and then clicked it again. All the computers in the room were top-notch, and relatively new; they were still mostly functional. His family may have been fairly affluent, but they weren’t about to shell out thousands every year to replace machines which didn’t need replacing.  
  
“Gotta take a risk once in a while,” Jim piped up. He took a swig of his energy drink and burped, loudly. It was always good to get all of the gas out of his system first - after all, girls didn’t like burping or farting. That _was_ a thing, wasn’t it?  
  
Kenneth slid his headphones back on and rolled his eyes. “Eh, she’ll be here in a bit, let’s clear things up a bit so she doesn’t have too hard a time -”  
  
The intercom crackled.  
  
\-----  
  
When Samantha first emerged, she was as weak as a newborn babe.  
  
Something had prevented her from surfacing in the hospital; perhaps it was Lawrence himself, or perhaps it was the simple fact that she was being observed, as they lay in the bed, prone, unthinking, dead to the world, and could not afford discovery. Lawrence had woken up, obviously, barely seven hours after he’d fallen into the vat, but Samantha? Samantha had taken a bit longer to come into herself.  
  
Lawrence had known that something was off from the start. He could feel something inside him that hadn’t been there before. But there was no pain associated with that new intruder; it wasn’t a tumour, and even if it had been, he wanted to confront it in his own time, in his own terms. So he waited until he was discharged; he waited until his parents had stopped fussing over him; and then he could wait no more.  
  
The first change was always the hardest, and Lawrence curled up on the floor of his spacious bathroom until it was over. There was no bathtub; Lawrence had made it clear, before the recent renovation, that he didn’t think bathtubs were necessary, and his parents saw no reason not to cleave to his preferences. Lawrence’s spindly, knobbly paw clutched at the soapstone sink, and then slipped away as something rippled under the skin, under the veins, within the veins.  
  
A few moments later, Samantha’s hand found purchase on the soapstone. She dragged herself up, coughing mucus, and spat into the sink, fingers running through ratty hair. She hadn’t started growing her hair out yet, or even styling it; she was still new to the world, newborn, and unaware of the nuances (and wonders, as she would later consider it) of female grooming. There was dawning recognition as she looked down at herself, and then at her breasts. At the time, they were only A-cups, barely deserving of the name, and it wasn’t like she had any bras in the first place.  
  
She tested out her voice, like any newborn would - “Mama? Papa?” - and touched her face, prodded it. Gone were the angles, the eyebags, the blackheads - she had cheekbones, now, real cheekbones, and not the monstrous jagged things that made up Lawrence’s face. She was beautiful, even from birth, and the realization prompted a short, musical hiccup of laughter from her; as strength flooded into her body, it was followed by a trill of crisp, clear laughter, unfamiliar and exhilaratingly lovely.  
  
It took a few minutes of celebration for her to decide what she was going to do today. Was she going to go shopping? No, not really. Lawrence had an appointment to keep, but he’d refrained from giving a straight answer. Well, no matter.  
  
Samantha wasn’t about to steal from her mother’s wardrobe; in any case, her dimensions were suitable for boys’ clothing, even if Lawrence’s clothes were a bit long for her; in any case, the legs of his jeans could be rolled up, and - baggy shirts were obviously a plus. She’d probably get bras sooner or later.  
  
The housemaids - paid to keep tabs on her - could be induced to shut up for a hundred. Samantha rifled through his savings without much remorse - after all, it wasn’t like he wouldn’t have done the same thing - and slapped the bills on the table as she swept out, her hood obscuring her face. The housemaids didn’t notice a thing, as was their wont; they took the money, and slid it into their aprons, and kept on watching their foreign dramas. “Have a good day, Master Lawrence,” they chorused, without looking up, and fell silent.  
  
\-----  
  
“Please, come in!” Simon exclaimed. He grinned, widely; it was a manifestly false grin, but Samantha wasn’t supposed to know that. She smiled back, nonetheless, shyly, and shut the door behind herself before seating herself on Lawrence’s chair. Lawrence watched her sit down, shoulders tight with tension, and made his way cautiously back to his own side of the desk. While she was logging in, Ken glanced over her shoulder.  
  
“Woah, do you have his password?”  
  
_Shit._ “Yeah.” Samantha bit her lip. She’d just come up with that name, in a split-second, just as she had rounded the corner and come into view of Simon’s mansion. Was she going to be stuck with that name forever? It wasn’t a bad name. There were so many other things to account for. “Yeah, uh, he just gave it to me.”  
  
Kenneth raised an eyebrow and made eye contact with her. He blinked, once, and then retreated to the safety of his own computer. He didn’t say a word for the rest of the session. Jim did, though.  
  
“So, you’re, uh. From out of town?”  
  
Simon and Ken exchanged a simmering glance. Samantha would have joined in, but she wasn’t Lawrence. She had to remember that. “Yeah.”  
  
“Do you live in a nearby city, or, like, out of the country?”  
  
“Out of the country.” Samantha cleared her throat. “You might want to look at your screen.”  
  
Jim glanced at his own screen and blanched in horror. He’d poured at least fifty hours into that character, and he’d let himself get isolated from the group. Simon coughed loudly.  
  
\-----  
  
The canteen was abuzz with chatter. Lawrence sat at the same table as his class, but at the corner; Ken, Jim and Simon tended to cluster around that area as well. This time, it was Lawrence’s turn to be situated closer to the rest of the class. As he sat down, his elbow brushed against Diana’s shoulder. She turned to glare at him, sneering, and abruptly modulated her expression once she saw that it was him.  
  
“Didn’t see you there. Sorry.”  
  
She didn’t sound sorry, but that was okay. Lawrence squeezed out a smile and some pleasantries and she turned back to continue yammering on with Katie.  
  
“Dude,” Ken said. “Dude.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“You didn’t tell us your cousin was hot.”  
  
“Oh, didn’t I?” Lawrence was vaguely aware that what he was doing was unnatural. He was aware that nothing like it had ever happened in recorded human history. He was also aware that he was getting a sick, perverse thrill out of this. Somewhere in the depths of his mind, Samantha stretched and roused herself from her nap. “Nah, Samantha isn’t hot.”  
  
“She is.” Jim slurped from his orange juice. “You’re just saying that ‘cos she’s your cousin.”  
  
“Yeah, and?” Lawrence shrugged. “Have you seen the way she eats? Once she’s old enough, she’s going to fucking balloon. Mark my words.”  
  
“So? She’s hot _right now_.” Simon leaned forward. “Can you get her to come back?”  
  
“What, are you going to replace me?”  
  
Simon hesitated. “No. Uh… maybe the next time she’s in town, you could bring her along? I know Jim would love to give up his seat to let her play.”  
  
Jim reddened. Ken, for his part, guffawed loudly. “You should’ve seen him! He talked for the entire session!”  
  
“Really? But he always does that.”  
  
“I’m right here,” Jim muttered.  
  
“Yeah, but he wasn’t even talking about in-game stuff. He was talking about real life stuff. You should’ve been there. He was going on and on about where Samantha was from. _Oh, I love that place, have you been there? Really? How’s the amenities? Splendid. The spa is - you didn’t go there? It’s great, honestly._ ” Ken’s voice returned to normal. “I’m pretty sure he alt-Tab’d away from the game to look up all the shit he was spouting.”  
  
“You shut up.”  
  
“Jeez.” Lawrence glanced from Ken to Jim, and back to Simon. “Yeah, I’ll ask her if she wants to come again. Don’t get your hopes up, though. This was a one-in-a-million thing. She only visited this time ‘cos I was sick. She might move here, though - dunno if she will. My uncle was talking about it. But if she moves here, it doesn’t mean she’ll want to, like, come to your house every weekend and game.”  
  
Simon nodded quickly and vigorously. “Oh, yeah, of course. No pressure. On her. Yeah. It’d just - it’d be great to have her -” he amended himself - “her and you over. Again. Yeah.”  
  
“Sure, I’ll tell her that.”


	3. The Present, II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am Dormammu12 on DeviantArt. My online presence may be viewed in its totality here: linktr . ee / dormammu12
> 
> I also take commissions. Contact me on dA for more.

“Last to leave, Lawrence?” Mark asked, poking his head in past the door. “Again?”

Lawrence slapped a smile across his face and tilted his head at his colleague. “You know me so well.” A pause. “I’m just making provisions for the weekend.”

“Cool.” Mark pointed his thumb over his shoulder, at the lift. “Club?”

“Nah.”

“Oh, so dinner is fine, but drinking isn’t?” Mark made a face at Lawrence’s expression. “Hey, I’m just kidding. It’s okay if you don’t want to club - hell, tons of people I know say the club’s no place for them.” His voice dropped, adopting a conspiratorial tone. “The girls there, though, Larry - the girls!”

“We’ll see,” Lawrence hummed, dropping his gaze to the pile of papers before him, “we’ll see.”

The door shut with a gentle click, and Lawrence waited for another fifteen minutes before gathering up his papers and rising to his feet with a groan. Rubbing his eyes, he turned around and braced himself against his desk, staring out at the skyline, at the skyscrapers dotting the landscape. The sun was dropping below the horizon, and the lights were starting to come on, one by one, humming into life. He remained in that position for a while, just watching the buildings around him empty out, and took a sip from his cup of coffee. It was cold.

He didn’t know how to describe it, but… well… there was just this sensation of liminality that came over him, when it was just him in the office, him and no one else. He could see everything from up here, gazing down over the business district, and Lawrence savoured that feeling before turning around and staring at the rows and rows of monitors and terminals that made up the corporate ecosystem to which he belonged. The lights had been dimmed to save electricity while ensuring that Lawrence would still be able to find his way to the exit; Mark had probably flipped that switch, since he’d been the last person to leave (before Lawrence, of course).

“Need to wash my cup,” he muttered, just to hear his own voice, and went. His office was silent, and with the silence, other, less typically audible sounds had emerged. He could hear the air-conditioning humming, and the gentle whirring of computers which had been left on over the weekend. What a waste. “Note to self,” Lawrence continued, squeezing the sponge and watching as soapsuds dripped out and down, “remind everyone to switch off their devices when they leave.” He paused, gave the matter some more thought. “Unless they need to download an update or something.” He’d been on the receiving end of enough ridiculous mandatory software updates to know, after all.

Lawrence liked to have things in their proper places, and once he’d made sure that the sink was clean, he made his way back to his office and switched off his computer. Slowly, taking his time, savouring the moment, he packed his papers into his briefcase, slipped on his jacket, grabbed his phone and fished his keys out of his pocket. Out he went, locking his office door behind him as he did, and took the lift down to the first floor.

“Hi,” he said, once he arrived. “I’m the last to leave. I was from the twentieth floor.”

“Noted,” the security guard droned, heaving himself to his feet, and once he was sure that the other man was on his way up, Lawrence returned to the lift and headed on down to the basement. The guard would lock everything else up, and that would be it for the weekend.

He was in his car for a few minutes, tapping through his phone and programming a quick playlist for the drive home. The engine flickered into life, humming underneath him, and Lawrence exhaled in satisfaction as the gears changed without his prompting. The wheels spun, his car pulled out of the parking lot, and soon they were out, soaring into the night.

It was an automatic model, his car; Lawrence had traded up for it some time back, after such things had started to become more and more commonplace. It hadn’t been the best deal, to be fair, but it wasn’t a second-hand car, either, and he was satisfied with its performance. Leaning back in his seat, he interlaced his fingers behind his head and kept his eyes on the road.

Part of operating a self-driving car was the uncertainty, that constant, steady thrum of anxiety that the AI would make the wrong call. Lawrence knew that his car’s AI had its blind spots, and knew how to account for them, but there was always the chance that… well, there was always the chance that there would be an issue. He wasn’t as nervous as he’d been when he’d first started, though, that was for sure.

Alone, truly alone, sealed away within the metal carapace of his automobile, Lawrence relaxed further, issuing a call into the depths of his conscious mind, and something responded.

“Not yet,” he said, voice echoing within the confines of his car, aware and content that no one would hear him, and the gentle rippling of his skin subsided, fading to a faint, imperceptible vibration. “You’ll get your dinner soon.”

He was past the security guard in no time. Our world is mediated by security guards, Lawrence reflected, thoughts tinged with a hint of something else, borders and restrictions and regulations. The law… damn the law. What’s a girl gotta do to get into a club? Jeez, they just keep piling them on, don’t they?

“Impatient,” Lawrence chided, sliding out of his car and hoisting his briefcase into his hand. Wait until we’re home.

By your leave, your majesty.

Oh, sarcasm.

To a casual onlooker, Lawrence’s stride had shortened perceptibly, muscles tensing as his skin rippled once again, in time with his heartbeat. Into the lift he went, nostrils flaring as he inhaled the refreshing, minty scent that they’d used to air out the place, and thumbed the button on the lift panel with a hiss. The smell was nice.

I don’t like it.

Don’t be a contrarian.

They’d never had a serious disagreement, though, because when it came down to the wire, they shared a body, and whatever hurt Lawrence would hurt her as well. No exceptions.

Lawrence’s door had several layers of protection. He took great pride in counting them, one by one, as he performed each routine verification. First, the key, sliding into the lock. Second, the passcode, keyed into the smooth, blank screen. Third, his thumb, pressing into the gentle recess. Fourth, his retina, staring, unblinking, into the upper portion of the screen. One by one, the four lights on the door switched from red to green, and as they did, the door hissed open. He stepped over the threshold, inhaled, and set his briefcase down on the floor.

All yours.

The door shut with a quick swipe of his foot, and Lawrence groaned, eyes fluttering in a distinctly un-Lawrence-like way. The cords in his neck straining, he staggered to the couch. A variety of processes were going on, all at the same time, and he could feel all of them take effect. One spasming hand darted down, cupping his groin, and pressed against emptiness. Shortly after, it was joined by his other hand, unbuckling his belt and stripping off his pants.

Room to grow.

“Yes,” Lawrence hissed, eyes rolling back into his head for a brief moment.

What, is that agreement, titillation, or just you giving off positive vibes?

Lawrence didn’t answer. He was unbuttoning his shirt, fingers moving eagerly even as the bones in his hands cracked and reformed. When his lower torso was exposed, he moved on to his tie, loosening it slightly, and then popped open the upper three buttons of his shirt.

Might as well go all the way, no?

Lawrence undid the last button, shrugging out of his jacket, shoulders writhing, and took one desperate gulp of air before pulling his shirt off of him in one smooth motion. It fluttered to the ground, and Lawrence’s last clear memory was of that shirt settling against the carpet, a puddle of white.

A nanosecond later, Samantha’s eyes snapped open.

She sighed, then, the lump in her throat dissolving as air flooded out from her lungs, and reached down to pull off Lawrence’s pants, and then his underwear. Their muscles - Samantha didn’t think it would be right to call them hers, not quite yet - were dissolving, twisting into some primordial sludge and slipping about, here and there, slotting into place. Lawrence’s legs had seized up, muscle and bone melting down into fresh biomass, ripe for reuse and conversion; it would be a while before she’d be able to stand up. Their height decreased steadily as biomass was redistributed to other parts of their body; Samantha hissed as warm, soft heaviness settled down over her, the warmth of femininity, the warmth of her own body, within which she was comfortable, within which she was happy. Her shoulders rounded out, thighs growing outwards until they pressed lightly against each other, and her body rose ever-so-slightly, ascending by a few centimetres as flesh flooded into Lawrence’s ill-padded buttocks.

“There we go.”

She brought a hand to her throat, grinned.

Their height ratcheted down again, Lawrence’s legs shortening by another few centimetres, and his flat, lightly muscled chest bulged outwards, filling out as flesh flooded behind his nipples, swelling from small bumps into conical bumps, and - finally - into fully-fledged breasts, round, hefty and large. Samantha cupped them in her hands as they settled in place, hugging them to herself as though they were old friends, and heaved herself to her feet, limping slightly as her legs continued to creak and realign.

Down their height went again, finding another source of biomass in Lawrence’s lower torso and the subtle curve of his skull. A mess of ebony curls poured forth as his head twisted and reformed, a few slices of flesh from his torso slotting into place along her cheeks, over her forehead, along her jaw, remaking his face in Samantha’s image. There was another sharp drop - Samantha felt her stomach twist as her digestive system rearranged itself to make way for her own, uniquely feminine organs -

And then, at long last, blessed quiet.

She looked down, then, thoughtfully, discarding the spectacles still hanging on to the bridge of her nose. As though on cue, a large, round belly surged outwards, shooting past her breasts, shielding Lawrence’s feet (they hadn’t been downsized yet - Samantha’s thighs would need a bit more weight to deal with everything above her hips) from view, built from the remaining inches of height that remained of Lawrence’s taller frame. Still half-dazed from the transformation, her hand lashed out, as though making sure that it was really there, and delivered a tight, hard slap.

“Fuck!” Samantha howled, and rubbed at the crimson mark her hand had left on her belly, massaging the warm, tightly-packed fat gently. “That was a bad idea.”

She began to wander across the living room, gingerly at first, and then with increasing confidence, tossing her head as her hair grew past her shoulders. Her feet emerged as she passed from her bedroom into the walk-in closet, Lawrence’s socks growing looser and looser by the second, until she could kick them off and send them soaring. This she duly did, and sighed as her soles made contact with the wooden flooring.

Samantha was naked, now, entirely naked, her back to Lawrence’s collection of shirts and pants, which had been illuminated by an array of warm lights. (The pane of glass which lined the corridor and served as a window had been removed; Lawrence had judged it “too revealing”.) His half of their closet was positioned closer to the outer end of his penthouse; to pass into Samantha’s half (which - not to put too fine a point on it - occupied somewhat more space than Lawrence’s), one had to first key in a passcode, while submitting to another thumbprint and retina scan. Samantha had never understood such circumspection - after all, their apartment was already protected so exhaustively - but Lawrence held the purse-strings, and so she could not but acquiesce.

“Ah, at long last,” she whispered, as both doors slid away, “oh, I’ve missed you all so much!”

Lawrence’s portion had no carpet, but Samantha’s portion definitely had one. Her feet sank into the cool, soft wool as she took short, quick steps, dancing over the floor, revelling in being surrounded by things that belonged to her, things that smelled like her, things that felt like her. Her portion of the walk-in closet was far more spacious than Lawrence, for while Lawrence’s life occupied the entirety of their shared apartment, Samantha’s life was all stored here, right here, in this closet… though “closet” would have been something of an understatement. Indeed, the proper term would have been “chamber”, for it was a very large space indeed.

One whole wall was occupied entirely by clothing, operated by a finicky little device that had been designed specially for someone of her height; it would retrieve her required item of clothing from wherever in the depths of the closet it was stored and transport it straight to her hands. She had shoes, too, less than ten pairs - Samantha thought that she should have been praised for her restraint - and three dozen sets of lingerie for when she was feeling sexy (which was all the time, FYI) and poles laden with bags, purses and clutches. There was a lavishly accoutred makeup table, with waist-height counters stuffed with cosmetics, perfumes, accessories - everything a woman with a taste for the finer things in life should want. It was at this makeup table that she was sitting, at this very moment, balanced on a plush stool, staring at herself in the mirror, chest heaving, a smile spreading over her face.

“Enough luxuriating,” she whispered, nose almost touching the cool surface of the mirror, “let’s go grab some dinner.”

\-----

“Sir, you have a visitor.”

“Ask for verification.”

“Verification provided, sir. Additional message provided. Shall I play the message?”

“Go ahead. Oh, and also - let her in.”

“Hey, fuckface. It’s me.”

Simon Banks chuckled, rose to his feet and padded down the stairs into his living room, a glass of wine in one hand. A clear panel separated him from the long, gently sloping path that led down to the gate guarding his compound. Said gate had opened, permitting a car to back slowly through, reversing all the way up the path, and there he stood, watching, as its lights switched off. A slight figure, wrapped in a trench coat, slipped out of the automobile and gave him the finger.

“Yup. That’s her.”

With a barely-there spring in his step, he made his way to the door and opened it.

“Hello, Samantha -” he began, and was promptly cut off as she pressed her lips to his and slipped out of her trench coat. He could feel the warmth of her gut through his woollen jumper, and as his hands tracked down past her breasts, down, down, down to her hips, it became abundantly clear that she’d not been wearing anything underneath that trench coat of hers. She stood up on her tiptoes, then, arms wrapping around his neck, pulling him down so she could continue sucking greedily on his mouth, and then sprang up, once, legs wrapping around his hips -

“Woah, woah,” Simon managed, breaking the kiss, and Samantha raised an eyebrow, arms disengaging and legs making contact with the floor. The door was still open, and she was still naked, her trench coat puddled about her feet. She’d let her hair loose tonight, he noted absently. “I - uh - let’s not get ahead of ourselves, yeah?”

Samantha’s expression flickered into a smirk. “Oh, you sure?” she crooned, grabbing a handful of his crotch. “Are you absolutely certain?”

Simon gestured at his glass of wine, which had been placed on a nearby cabinet. “I don’t want this to turn into prune juice.” Samantha’s grip on his manhood was strong, and still somehow stimulating; he was pretty sure that he’d need to take a moment to clean himself up.

“Oh, fine.” Samantha dipped into a squat, knees creaking audibly, and gathered up her trench coat around herself, buttoning it up over her swollen gut, her heavy breasts, the fine bones of her neck. “Like it?” she asked, and Simon realized that she’d seen him staring. “It’s from Burberry.”

“Not as much as I like the lady wearing it.”

“Charmer.” She reached down again - bending somewhat less than the first time - and grabbed her handbag. “Well? Lead on.”

Simon shut the door and strolled up the steps into his dining area. “I’ve prepared quite the spread for you and your voracious appetite,” he called, over his shoulder, and pressed his fingers into the wooden panels lining the table, savouring the sensation of finely-carved wood under his fingertips. “Broke out one of my best bottles for the occasion.”

“And little Malcolm?” Samantha breathed, pressing her chin into his shoulder, whispering the words into his ear. “And your lovely Lucia? I hope you’ve got them occupied.”

“Lucia’s eating for three,” Simon said, absently, adjusting his utensils. “She’s in Berlin for the weekend. Malcolm’s at a friend’s house for the night. Don’t worry, it’s only you, me and STAN.”

“I think I’ve said this before, but STAN is a stupid name for an AI.”

“You have,” Simon agreed, genially, turning around, and was momentarily struck dumb by the sight of Samantha, who had shrugged off her trench coat and was, even now, slipping on a set of lingerie that she’d fished out of her bag. “Said that before, I mean,” he began, again, running his finger over his lips. “And I maintain that it’s a decent name. I mean, Malcolm likes it.”

“He’s a nice boy.”

“Yep.”

“Put a tracker on him, though, didn’t you?”

“I don’t want him seeing anything that he shouldn’t,” snapped Simon, pointedly, stung by the wry smile on Samantha’s face, and gestured for her to sit. She was wearing a nice, sheer one-piece dress, extending about halfway to her knees; just long enough to be decent, but just short enough to hint at something more. “What do you want, Samantha?”

“One of your subsidiaries has been contracted by the government to manufacture passports,” Samantha remarked, casually, pulling back her chair and settling into it. “I’d like to know more about it.”

“No means no, Samantha,” Simon grunted, spooling up a strand of his spaghetti on his fork, focusing on his food. “Flings are one thing, you know, but business is another.” He chewed, swallowed, and took a sip of his wine. “You know, about two years ago, you came to me asking a similar question. And I said no. Now, we fucked after that, and I’m happy about that, and we’ve fucked a couple other times in the past couple of years, but your questions are starting to rankle.” He leaned across the table, tried to keep his eyes off how Samantha had polished off half her steak while he’d been talking. “You’re not involved in anything untoward, are you?”

“I just need to stay one step ahead of the government on this,” Samantha replied, mildly, gesturing with her fork, and Simon wondered how her makeup had remained intact, barely a hair out of place, when she’d already damn near finished off her fillet. “I want to keep travelling, Simon. I want to keep driving my cars without the cops looking askance at my license. I want -”

“They’re not your cars,” Simon said.

“What’s the difference?”

“I haven’t seen Lawrence in ages,” Simon remarked, airily, noting how Samantha’s face seemed to darken. “Not in the past two decades, I don’t think. I saw him once - when I dropped by to check in on how your closet was holding up - and that was about it.”

“Well, things have been awkward,” Samantha quipped, her expression flickering back into her usual impish smirk. “You can’t just hit Lawrence up like that. I mean, on the one hand, you haven’t spoken in years. On the other hand…” She gestured down at herself. “Just a couple months back, I think, you were balls-deep in him, or at least a body which had been occupied by him just a few hours prior.” She paused. “And, Simon, trust me. He knows you’ve fucked me. He knows.”

For a few minutes, the table was silent. Samantha worked her way through her pasta, polished off her escargot, and finished her foie gras over the course of a few concise, delicate mouthfuls. Not a drop of sauce escaped down her chin; she was a clean eater, and, of course, very, very fast.

“This food is wasted on you,” Simon lamented, looking down at his plate, and started to dissect his prawn. “All this stuff is meant to be savoured, you know. You’re supposed to take your time.”

“Your cakes are great.”

“I think we need to stop this.”

That sentence - unlike anything Simon had said previously - managed to retard Samantha’s frenetic pace of eating. She chewed and swallowed, throat working to process her mouthful of macaroon, and set her utensils down. Down went another gulp of wine, and when her eyes next met Simon’s, they were cold and forbidding. “Oh, really.”

Simon had faced down more dangerous opponents than her in the boardroom. “Yes, really.” He folded his arms. “Why did you think I prepared such a spread for tonight? This is way more than the usual, you know, and that’s because I really wanted you to enjoy this. There’s ice cream in the kitchen, too, and sushi in the fridge. You can have that too if you want.”

“Go on.”

“Malcolm is going to be eight soon, and Lucia’s pregnant. Now, I’m thankful that you supported me during the divorce, but I’m going to be a father again, and -” Simon broke off. “I’m old. I’m not some young, hot-blooded buck anymore. The boardroom is my arena, now, not the bedroom. And what we’ve been doing is just too dangerous.”

“I’m just too dangerous.”

“Look, Samantha -”

“No, it’s fine,” Samantha laughed, and her expression shifted again, Simon watching, enthralled, as her face changed like a chameleon switching out its colour. “I understand, I really do. I guess I pushed too hard, eh?” She heaved herself to her feet with a grunt, and his eyes were drawn to her churning belly, packed tight as a drum, stuffed with food, sticking out further than Lucia’s - Lucia, who was seven months gone and dead on her feet from exhaustion. “Thanks for the Givenchy, though. Thanks for the Chanel perfumes, and the Dior dresses, and the Louboutin handbags. And the food - oh!” She pawed at her stomach; it was gurgling. “The food was excellent. The sex, too.”

“You don’t need to needle me like that,” Simon grumbled, eyes still fixed on her stomach as it bobbed over to him, low on her ample hips. “I know I’m very vanilla.”

“You have a very nice penis.”

“Why, thank you.”

“One last time for the road?” She bent down, full lips frozen in a pucker, a dot of chocolate still on her lips, and Simon leaned to the side, anticipation rising in his chest -

He could not disguise a groan as she pulled away, then, whip-quick, stalking back to the other end of the table, and made for the kitchen, hips swinging in that hypnotic way. “Uh-uh! Not yet, bad boy. You were talking about ice cream and sushi, weren’t you?”

“Yes,” Simon muttered, resignedly, and then repeated himself a bit louder. “Yes, Samantha. Ice cream, sushi and oysters.”

“Excellent,” Samantha called, letting out a hoot of delight as she opened the fridge. “I’m going to milk you for all you’re worth tonight, Simon. I hope you don’t regret this.”

\-----

Simon woke up first, roused into a sort of drowsy semi-wakefulness by a strange sound. It sounded like a gentle droning, a wheeze… a snore?

A snore.

He turned, ever-so-slightly, and smiled woozily at the sight of Samantha beside him, eyes shut, mouth open, hair tousled artlessly, breasts bared to the daylight. Lucia was wonderful, of course - a high-society wife from a high-society family, always poised, always perfect, and utterly devoted to raising Malcolm, even though he wasn’t hers - but Samantha would always have a special place in his heart. There was a certain spontaneity to her, a certain sense of vitality. She promised excitement. She promised wild, wild sex. She promised… she promised youth.

Youth that Simon could feel slipping away from him with every day that passed.

The thought that she shared her body with a man his age - a man pushing forty - just made things worse. The fact that she’d been asking awkward questions about his business had been another. Malcolm’s eighth birthday and Lucia’s pregnancy had been the final nail in the coffin. Simon could not deny that he would be sorry to see her go, but he had to move on. Sparring with her in bed was all well and good, but there was another opponent on the horizon - mortality.

Her arm had been thrown over his chest possessively, and as Simon stretched - just a little bit - it became clear that she’d left a mark on his back, and on his arms. He lifted her hand up, examining her crimson nails, and let it fall back to his chest.

Part of what he liked to call “the Samantha Bolingbroke alarm” was her snore, a delightfully authentic and endearing part of her, and the other half of that was… well… her belly.

Simon’s hand drifted down, lower, to the warm, round weight of her belly against his stomach (still flat, but beginning to sag). It was churning, groaning, growling, struggling to digest the sheer weight of food that she’d stuffed into herself last night, and the sound that it was emitting - Simon pressed his hand to her flesh and felt it vibrate underneath his palm - had been loud enough to rouse him. He didn’t remember much from last night; Samantha had tried to drink him under the table, and after that… after that…

He had a headache.

Simon winced, rubbing at his temples, and asked STAN for a hangover cure. He couldn’t recall much more than a few fleeting images, but what little he could remember was -

\- Samantha sitting, legs spread, on the floor of his kitchen, surrounded by gleaming chrome appliances, her eyes glazed, one hand gently rubbing her vast dome of a belly, mouth still completely clean, lips still kissable and spotless, and Simon’s hand pressing one more oyster towards her -

\- Samantha lying back on the couch, head tossed back, her neck exposed as she laughed, a bottle of Jack Daniel’s in one hand and a pair of cards in the other, completely naked, her gut shielding her sex from view, and Simon stripped down to his boxers, the world fuzzy, warm and tinged with that uniquely alcoholic buzz -

\- Samantha riding him, her belly slapping his chest rhythmically as her fingers tightened on his shoulders, bringing one hand up to her scalp to drag it through her hair, eyes blank with ecstasy, bending down to kiss him until spots swam before his eyes -

Samantha knew how to have a good time, that was for sure. Indeed, Simon wasn’t sure if she was the living personification of a good time, truth be told. Hadn’t Lawrence fallen into a vat of volatile chemicals? Who’s to say that it hadn’t awoken something, produced something, altered something -

“Morning,” Samantha whispered.

“Morning,” Simon murmured back. As Samantha shifted, removing her gurgling gut from his torso, he sat up, snagging the small decanter of fluid placed on his bedside table, and tipped it down his throat. It went down badly; he sputtered, a few times, coughing as though he was down with TB, and Samantha thumped him hard on the back until he gave her a thumbs-up.

“Nice hangover cure.”

“Thanks.”

Samantha had never gotten a hangover in all the time that he’d known her. Just another reason to move on to better things, Simon supposed.

She seemed to have realized that his mood had changed, because her hands went to her belly, manoeuvring its stretched-taut surface over to the side, flopping in the opposite direction. Her legs - short but not stubby, fleshy but not fat - followed her gut to the side, feet making contact with the floor, and within seconds, she was upright, stumbling slightly before righting herself. Simon smiled at the sight.

“I guess this is goodbye.”

“Yes.”

Samantha smiled, suddenly, one last blaze of spontaneity and sunlight, and darted forward to plant a kiss on Simon’s lips. Her belly ground against his abs, and Simon felt the word “stay” rise to his lips -

“I’ll see you around, big boy,” Samantha murmured, stepping backwards, out the door, and then she was gone.

Simon slumped back against the cushions. It was - he checked with STAN - eight in the morning, but he felt exhausted.

“STAN?” he asked. “I want your cameras to track her as she leaves.”

“Yes, sir.” A pause. “Malcolm has left Mr Pressfield’s home. ETA: thirty minutes.”

“Let me know when he’s ten minutes away.”

“Yes, sir.”

\-----

Samantha could feel his eyes on her as she slid her panties up over her hips. She winced, then, visibly, and slowed her movements, allowing her belly to weigh her down. Simon liked it when she was all huge and ungainly.

On her bra went, Samantha’s hands adjusting their cups to expose a generous valley of cleavage, and on went her dress, which had been strained to its absolute breaking point during last night’s binge. That was how she’d always liked her dresses; Samantha enjoyed living on the edge.

There were a few empty bottles of Jack Daniel’s lying on the coffee table. Her trench coat had been tossed over the back of the couch, and she shrugged it on, attempting to force its two halves together over the outermost point of her gut, before throwing her hands up - for Simon’s benefit - and tying a loose knot under her breasts. “I’ll keep this,” she called, grabbing a half-empty bottle of vodka, and stuffed it into her handbag. Once it was securely shut, she bent down, panting (this, again, for Simon’s benefit), and swept it into her arms.

The journey from her car to Simon’s doorstep had been less than fifty steps, and so Samantha had elected to go without shoes. Injecting the sway of her hips with a little more heft than was absolutely necessary, she waddled to her car, opened her door and got in. Her handbag was dumped in the seat beside her. The gates swung open, silently, mounted on well-greased gimbals, and Samantha switched her car on.

Had to wait ‘till I was in the car to open the gates, eh? she thought. Fuck you, Simon.

Her car was swinging out of the neighbourhood in no time, but it wasn’t until she was more than ten minutes from Simon’s mansion that Samantha allowed the grin to stretch across her face. Her left hand danced over to the open lip of her handbag and dove in before closing around a thumbdrive.

“Oh, Simon,” she cackled. “You were always a lightweight.”

Samantha’s tolerance for alcohol had always been pretty high, after all, and when in a heightened state of arousal and intoxication, Simon was remarkably easy to persuade. He was set in his ways, was Simon, and Samantha had learnt a great deal about STAN over the past few years. She’d been there when STAN had been nothing more than a prototype, and many of the exploits that Simon had coded in at the start were still there. Oh, he’d changed some passwords, but that was about it.

Her giggles had mostly subsided when the cop pulled her over.

Oh, Samantha thought, still giggling, even though all mirth had faded from her mind, oh, what a terrible time for this particular scenario to play out.

“I’m going to have to see your driving license, ma’am.”

He swaggered over to her side of the car, as such people did, and bent down to give her a once-over. She saw him inhale quickly as her face came into view; as he took in the rest of her body, there was a slight - but noticeable, if one knew where to look - increase in the rate at which his fingers tapped against her car door. Samantha smiled, arched her back slightly, and fished around for her driving license. She tended to have that effect on people.

“I do hope everything is alright, officer.”

She smiled up at him, then, as he rose to his full height to inspect the document, and batted her eyelashes, raising one slim-fingered hand to press against her cheekbones, biting her lip.

A few heart-stopping moments passed, during which she was tempted to make a break for it, but this wasn’t the first time she’d sat through such an inspection. Lawrence had thought through such things exhaustively, after all, and when it came to legal issues and brushes with the authorities - as opposed to Samantha’s usual activities of shopping, eating and fucking - a tinge of his restraint yet lingered.

Completely unaware of her inner turmoil, the cop looked it over. He paused, then, brow furrowed, and Samantha tensed. Her hands tightened on the wheel. He was going to pull out a scanner, she knew, and she would have to make a break for it, possibly running him over in the process. And if she ran him over, then, well, she’d have to hide the body to give herself some time to gather up all her things. She’d be off to Heathrow before news had even filtered back to Scotland Yard -

“It’s fine, ma’am,” said the officer, blue eyes flicking up to meet hers, and pressed the license back into her hand. “You have a nice day, now.”

“You too,” Samantha laughed, fingers ghosting over his hand as she slotted her license back into her clutch, and switched her car on again.

She arrived at her destination about half an hour later. Unlike Simon’s compound, this bungalow was on the outskirts of the city. She parked outside - the driveway was likely to be crowded - and rang the doorbell. The gates swung open shortly after.

As she strolled down the driveway in her heels, Samantha wondered how she looked, all boozed-up, her mascara running, a washed-up, decadent, bloated ex-party-girl in a trench coat struggling to contain her beer gut, all visceral fat and tightly-packed flab, handbag hanging loosely from the crook of her arm. It excited her; nothing was as arousing as being underestimated.

Her nose twitched; she smelled cigarettes.

“Samantha!”

“Jim,” Samantha called, striding up to her ex-classmate, wrapped her long arms around him, and pecked him lightly on the lips. He tasted like nicotine, and his mouth was greedy against hers, seeking to drag out the kiss even as she pulled away. “I have it.”

James Grove (known also as Jim to his friends) ran most of the city’s underworld from this bungalow - the marijuana business, the illegal gambling dens, the debt collectors, the “civilized” brothels, more fraudsters than you could shake a stick at… and, of course, the most sophisticated forgery operation in the country. Physically, though, he was a short man, running to fat, and - not to put too fine a point on it - ugly. Samantha had never fucked him, and had no intention of doing so. Nevertheless, he loved to watch her strut around, and as long as that was all she was doing, then she was fine with that.

He and Simon hadn’t spoken in a while, though. Their spheres simply didn’t intersect in any appreciable way, and just as Lawrence had allowed his contacts with his old schoolmates to lapse, so too had their connections been permitted to fall into disrepair, and finally into nonexistence. Jim knew Samantha was speaking to Simon, but Simon didn’t know Samantha was speaking to Jim… and, as far as she was concerned, that was how it was going to stay.

“Good girl,” Jim hissed, making grabby hands, and Samantha dropped the thumbdrive into his paws. He reached up, standing on tiptoes, and patted her head in a gesture that should have appeared absent-minded. “I’ll have your new documents ready in a week.” He paused, the wheels in his brain turning visibly, and continued. “Want to come in for a drink? I’ve got some friends who’d be just ecstatic to see you. A few of them were here the last time; they’ve been bugging me, y’know?” His voice rose by an octave, became wheedling. “Hey, Jimmy, where’s that girl you were with the last time? She’s a knockout, that one -”

“I don’t think so,” Samantha said, those last few words thrown over her shoulder as she strutted back out through the open gate. “I’m sorry, Jim - I’ve got other stuff to do today.”

“Your loss,” Jim retorted, a tinge of desperation leaking into his voice, and Samantha smiled and added a little bit more swing to her hips, just for him. She’d wanted to join the fun, of course - she’d always wanted to, as was her wont, to want and want and want \- but Lawrence had mooted it.

Lawrence and his restraint. Lawrence and his caution. “We don’t want to get on the wrong side of the law.”

What was he talking about? Samantha had always been on the wrong side of the law; only Lawrence legally existed in the eyes of the state. Only Lawrence could live his life without fear of being caught, arrested, deported, fined. Samantha had to deal with that fear, day after day, week after week; was it any wonder that she’d turned to sex and food to tamp down the panic?

I should go in. I’d probably make some friends; I’m a very friendly person. They’d be useful friends, too -

No.

Lawrence was waking up, now, and Samantha cursed herself for even having entertained the notion. He’d usually been a passive participant to the proceedings, half-conscious or perhaps quarter-conscious, observing from the sidelines as Samantha took his body for a ride, recharging as Monday approached, but sometimes - rarely - Samantha got out of line and had to be reminded that it was Lawrence who paid the bills, Lawrence who owned the cars, Lawrence who funded her lifestyle -

“You don’t need to remind me,” Samantha snapped hotly, safe within the hermetically-sealed confines of her (not yours, Lawrence snarled, mine) self-driving car. “Can’t I have a bit of fun without you looking over my shoulder?”

This isn’t fun, Lawrence said, with an air of long-suffering, put-upon-ness. Jim is a criminal, Samantha, and I’ve endorsed your continued contact with him because you need identity documents. Any further involvement would be dangerous.

“I’ve been stealing data from Simon for Jim over the past decade,” Samantha said, tartly. “I’d say that counts as ‘further involvement’.”

Shall I retroactively withdraw my consent, then? A sigh. It wouldn’t change anything.

“You just want to keep me reliant on you for cash,” Samantha retorted, and felt Lawrence tense. “You want to keep me under your thumb. I don’t have to be a party girl, you know, just buying clothes and fucking guys and eating myself into a stupor just because you’re too uptight to enjoy yourself. I can make my own money!”

By forging identity documents? Lawrence’s tone was thick with disbelief. I know you’ve learnt a lot about that sort of thing over the years, but you need customers, and you need a steady and secure way of transporting the money into an untraceable account, and you need -

Samantha threw herself back into her seat, eyes burning with humiliation, and folded her arms huffily. “Shut up,” she hissed. “You’ve made your point.”

Good, Lawrence said, faintly, and went back to sleep.

\-----

Samantha woke up early, as she always did, on Sunday morning.

As was typical for her, she remembered everything from last night. She’d gone to a club, as usual; she’d ordered a ton of alcohol, as usual; she’d chatted up random strangers, as usual. The only thing that was less than usual about that night was the fact that there was a woman in her bed instead of a man.

She was a pretty thing, this one, way more femme than butch, with a series of moles peppering her face and a luxuriant mane of bottle-blonde hair. She’d been hungry, too. Samantha brushed at her neck, fingers dancing down her curves to press against her sore crotch, and smiled at the memories.

I need a dildo.

If this becomes a regular occurrence, by all means, Lawrence muttered. He was awake, now, and stretching, preparing to reclaim his body. Breakfast?

Samantha nodded. Breakfast.

She ambled out of the bedroom and glanced at the four empty tubs of ice cream still sitting on the coffee table. Now, that had been fun; the woman (Olivia? Clara?) had clearly been very into it, and she’d all but forced every last drop of it down Samantha’s throat. Not that Samantha wouldn’t have been able to finish it all on her own, but sometimes it was fun to have someone else feed her.

She’d polished off most of the stuff in Lawrence’s kitchen for dinner; as things were, there were only a few leftover bits of meat. Those she shovelled into her mouth, without bothering to warm them up (she’d never gotten sick from them, anyway), and reached for Lawrence’s bottle of leftover lard. This she chugged, swallowing mouthful after mouthful of wet, chewy goodness, before pausing - briefly - to check whether she’d cleared off enough. Lawrence liked to keep some lard around for cooking, but not too much.

Gotta love being your dustbin, she thought.

Shush.

They’d been arguing more and more often; Samantha was chafing, and no wonder. Oh, it was all well and good to travel occasionally, but as regards Lawrence’s commitments, the bad had begun to outweigh the good. Why did they have to return to the penthouse before Samantha was done having fun? Why did Samantha have to let go when Monday rolled around? Why had Lawrence refused to let her have just a little bit more excitement?

Samantha had a hunch. It was a small hunch, but it was growing. She’d been gathering evidence, making connections, in the deepest, most secret levels of her subconscious mind, and the next time they had an argument - the next time there was a disagreement - she’d tell him what she really thought of their relationship. And there would be a reckoning.

As she shoved the last two remaining slices of bread in her mouth, there was a soft sound from behind her.

“Oh,” Samantha gasped, turning around, still completely naked, and planted one hand on her soft hip. “You’re up.”

“Yeah,” the other woman groaned, rubbing her eyes blearily, and Samantha waited for Lawrence’s pulse to spike with arousal.

There was nothing.

Curiouser and curiouser, she thought. Are you no longer into girls, Larry? I know you aren’t gay.

That’s my business, came the tight-lipped answer, and Samantha laughed, high and clear. Her one-night-stand looked at her, eyes bright, as though she was falling in love with her all over again, and Samantha stalked right over to her and kissed her on the lips.

“You taste like grease and breadcrumbs,” she breathed, once Samantha let go, and her voice was husky. “What did you -”

“Oh, just finishing off my groceries,” Samantha hissed, peppering her neck with kisses, and the other woman - I should really ask for her name, Samantha thought - moaned, hands slipping between the two of them to rub all over her rumbling, growling belly. “It’s warm, isn’t it?” she asked, pausing from where she was sucking at the other woman’s clavicle. “Digestion, you know… it generates heat.”

“That’s so hot.”

“I know, right?” Samantha laughed, delightedly, and moved her hands lower, underneath her lover’s thighs, hoisting them around her waist, although she was slightly shorter than the other woman. “What’s your name, dear?”

“Dinah.”

“Nice to meet you,” Samantha whispered, using her weight to lever Dinah against the couch. Dinah’s fingers had left angry crimson marks across her entire middle, and those marks were - oh, they were sensitive. “C’mon, hook your legs around my waist. Let’s see if your toes can meet ‘round my widest point.”

“Your circumference,” Dinah groaned. “God, you’re so round.”

“I’m practically spherical, aren’t I?” Samantha giggled. “Here’s what I think: one half of your ass resting on those cushions, the other half - including this little jewel over here -” and here her hand snapped out and teased Dinah’s opening - “resting on my little old belly. What do you think?”

“Great idea.”

And it was.

\-----

“Bye, Dinah,” Samantha called, swathed in her dressing gown, her lacy black bra leaving little to the imagination, and waited until the lift doors had slid shut before pivoting on her heel and sashaying into her apartment. The door shut behind her with a click.

Took your time, Lawrence grunted. It’s almost noon.

Samantha flopped down onto the couch, the fabric of her gown flapping out around her, and interlaced her fingers over her belly.

Well? Lawrence sounded impatient. I need to go and buy groceries.

“Fine, fine, fine,” Samantha grumbled, massaging her stomach, bloated, swollen and ripe, and drummed out a quick, staccato rhythm before slapping her hands down solidly on both her flanks and giving it a solid push.

Her stomach began to recede, then, the fat packed around her abdomen boiling and fizzling. Samantha rose to her feet and let her dressing gown flop to the floor; her panties and bra followed shortly after. Her whole body was warm, warmer than even the constant furnace of her gut, with its unending rhythm of digestion, vibrating as muscle and bone reformed, slotting into gaps that had not existed a nanosecond before. Her height ratcheted up, calves stretching out like taffy, thighs soaring in both directions, the joints in her feet popping as mass flooded in.

Samantha’s eyes rolled back into her head as her spine tightened, like a coiled spring, and then extended, her breasts melting into nothing as they fed into her arms, losing softness, gaining muscle, growing longer and longer. Her fingers flexed, losing their delicate slimness, palms filling out, knuckles swelling, and still the changes raced along.

Her neck thickened, a wad of biomass originating from her breasts solidifying into a lump of cartilage protruding from her throat, and her face twisted as flesh was redistributed, hair receding into her skull until it was once more Lawrence’s subdued cut. Down below, a sizable chunk of biomass popped out from her hips and congealed into a set of male genitalia.

And then Lawrence opened his eyes.

“Right,” he muttered, wetting his dry lips. “Right. Groceries. Right.”

He rose to his feet, still naked, and staggered into his walk-in closet to change.


End file.
